


Mawkish

by RatTale



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Concerned Raymond Reddington, First Kiss, Hurt Donald Ressler, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OC bad guy - Freeform, Slow Burn, Uncertainty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: Red has become a touch smitten with one green-eyed boy-scout, Donald Ressler. The whole thing is corny and certainly a touch mawkish, and not exactly something he'd ever, ever planned for. Nor something he ever wanted.But when Donald is hurt by one of Red's criminal colleagues, Red finds himself reaching out to help in any way his suddenly broken Agent will allow.
Relationships: Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Comments: 87
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hoffmannism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoffmannism/gifts).



> I started this fic during season 3/4 before I knew about Prescott. But I hope it's something you guys can still enjoy :)
> 
> I'm also gifting this fic to Hoffmannism. I love your fics! And I hope you enjoy this one ^_^

“You like him.”

Red smiled briefly, “’Like’. Such a stodgy, pedestrian word.”

“Should I rather have said smitten?”

He laughed, “That is a touch on the mawkish side.”

“Just a touch.”

“Mm.” From his vantage point he could see both Liz and Ressler walking to their FBI regulation vehicle. His eyes, as they often did these days, were pulled away from Liz’s bobbing hair to the broad shoulders of her partner. To his ginger hair that seemed to shimmer like gold in the sun and his ever-dour expression. One he now found he desperately wished to pull a smile onto whenever they met.

Smitten, good heavens he hadn’t had one of _those_ in a while. Interested? Yes. Attracted to? Certainly. But his cold, battered, broken, fractured beating thing that still managed to stutter blood through him rarely felt anything beyond those surface-easy-to-handle emotions. For the thing to soften so completely for a green-eyed, boy-scout agent? It was unbelievable.

And a touch mawkish.

“Shall I have lunch brought up?”

Red smiled, “Yes, thank you, Dembe, that would be most agreeable.”

His friend disappeared and Red continued to watch the two agents. Ressler was still talking to Liz. He stood next to the car leaning on the door as he processed what she was saying. His expression conveyed a sense of disinterest. Red smiled, he was most likely still dwelling on their argument only moments before.

To pursue anything would be foolish. Red knew this of course.

Ressler hated him, despised him to such an extent he’d almost taken his life in Brussels. It was foolish, beyond foolish, it was plain-old stupid to fall for him.

But still, Ressler had managed to touch a part of him he’d thought to be dead – a bright warm sweetness he’d never thought to feel again. To try and smother it was equally stupid. In his life and work one grabbed the small pleasures with both hands which drifted by on that muck of misery.

Which meant he certainly had the right to enjoy the view while it lasted.

* * *

From smitten his passions grew a little stronger into something bordering infatuation. He honestly blamed Ressler. The man’s loyalty, integrity and fierce protective streak only served to endear him further. His competence in the field, his strength, his willpower, his willingness to put himself in harm’s way for others.

Red found it refreshingly dumb, and painfully sweet.

There was a bright, absolute selfless nature to Donald that served to soften his heart into complete mush whenever he acted on those traits. As if the man never wanted to be a problem or hurdle to others – almost desperate to make the people close to him happy. Despite his hard exterior, he cared about others to the point of his own detriment. It made Red want to reach out and hold him tight, to keep him safe from himself, to teach him to be selfish for once in his life. To not put himself in harm’s way _all the time_.

“I’ll go.” Said Ressler.

  
Which he _always_ did.

Red smiled at him. “As much as I applaud your bravado, Agent Ressler, I am afraid this job will have to be done by a man who does not stink of agent as bad as you.”

Ressler rolled his eyes and smirked, “In case you forgot, I’ve been undercover before.”

“But not with this man,” he said, leaning in a little closer, quietly relishing the fact that Donald did not back away. This close he could see the warm green of his eyes. They were the colour of forest, dark with a depth one could sink into if given the chance. “He is deadly, cautious and will shoot you if he gets even a _whiff_ of trouble, and like I said, you _stink_ of Agent.” but you smell of mint and sweat, and quite frankly I’d love to know what cologne you use so I can spray it over my pillow at night.

“We’ve pretended I’m your inside man before,” Ressler said, leaning in a touch, “Why would this be any different?”

“Because Russouw trusts no one, least of all dirty cops. His country is full of them, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. Like you usually do, Donald.”

The agent smiled at him, more of a sneer really. Red smiled back, it always intrigued him how little his insults affected Donald. Like water off a duck’s back.

“Then who should go?” Lizzie stood near the table, arms crossed and expression hopeful. Red turned his smile on her.

“You, of course my dear Lizzie” he quickly raised a hand to stop Donald’s protests, “My associates have seen us together before, so it shouldn’t be hard to sell that we work together.” Plus, I will keep you out of harm’s way, that and I won’t have you as a damned distraction. Because you are so very distracting Donald. “Meanwhile I will give you the address to one of my contacts, he will give you the information you need to track Elise.”

Donald laughed, humourless “Of course.” he couldn’t have been more sarcastic if he tried, “Just another excuse to have her on your arm like a trophy.”

“Ressler!”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” Red smiled, stepping even closer, close enough to feel his breath puff over his face, “I can certainly have you on my other arm if you want, Donald.”

Donald’s face was closer to stone than Red had ever given it credit for. It was like trying to read a marble wall. “Not at all.” even his words were cut from marble, “I just don’t like the idea of missions being compromised because you have a favourite. If one agent has more experience in a certain field, then they should be used. Using Liz because you _like_ her is detrimental to our cause.” he leaned in close, making Red yearn to close the distance. “That is what I think, _Red_.”

It was the tone. Challenging, daring, cocky and strong. His heart jumped, and Red hid the sudden pulse of arousal with a bright laugh, “My dear Donald! Good thing I don’t give a damn what you think.” he turned away and held out his arm for Liz, “Come my dear, we have an appointment.” he waved a lazy hand over his shoulder, “Send my regards to Macario!”

He could feel Donald’s anger burning behind him. Red would never tire of getting a rise out of the man. There was just so much fun in it.

“He’s right you know.” Liz said just as the doors to the elevator closed.

“That you’re my trophy? Well, that is up for debate. Beautiful you may be, you’re no Mireia Lalaguna”

She rubbed a hand through her hair, “He _is_ better undercover. He has more experience.”

“Lizzie,” he turned to her, “Know that I make my decisions based on many variables. I know you’re best for this. Less experience included.”

She nodded, some uncertainty fading in the wake of his unwavering confidence. Satisfied Red turned away, but couldn’t help but smile, Of course the other benefit is you would keep my head in the game, not even Mireia Lalaguna could be a greater distraction than Donald.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rape mentioned and lightly described in this chapter.

Donald Ressler could honestly say he despised Reddington. The man was a smug, selfish, murderous bastard with little to no empathy or care. He used people, abused and reused and manipulated and ruined them to the point of no return. Except for those select precious few. Like Dembe and Liz who became so integrated into his life that nothing short of a well-timed explosion could extract them.

Donald hated the fact that there  _was_ such a distinction, and that he clearly was in the former; usable and disposable. He tried not to think about why this upset so much. It most likely had to do with the fact that he chased the bastard over the whole world for  _five years_ and still didn’t manage to gain even an ounce of respect.

And Reddington, the bastard, so loved to bring it up. Throw it in his face, using it as some sort of undeniable proof of how useless he really was. Donald hadn’t been good enough and Red, along with the entire fucking FBI made sure to remind him of that.

Donald slammed the car door and marched up the steps. It didn’t fucking matter. He had a job to do, and like most fucking days he was relegated to lackey while Liz got to play hero. Not like Donald hadn’t proven himself in the field ten fucking times over. 

Fucking bastard.

“I’m here to see Macario.”

The pretty receptionist looked up and smiled, “Agent Ressler, he is expecting you.” She pointed to an elevator. “Go to the top floor and head straight through.”

“Thanks.” He said, and marched to elevator, quietly trying to cool down. Why they couldn’t just phone Macario and ask for the information was beyond him. Man probably had some aversion to the phone, perhaps allergic to telephone waves, if that was a thing. Reddington so liked to associate with the more peculiar of society.

When the elevator opened at the top floor, he actually paused. He was faced with a deep blue hallway. Water ran down from the walls and into a small pool on either side of a softly lit walkway. Behind the running water was a mosaic decoration, it looked like dolphins and other sea creatures in intricate and beautiful designs. Not exactly what he had expected. 

With a final glance at the walls he started down the long walkway to, what he assumed, was Macario’s office.

The doors were a shining metallic, a stark contrast to the striking decoration. Donald opened the door. The office was also painted in deep blues, tasteful paintings of ocean fauna and flora lined the walls, and the furniture was a very pale grey, reminding him of the foam on the sea.

“Ah, Agent Ressler!” A dark haired gentleman, whom he assumed was Macario was seated behind a large black desk. He was smiling, “Please come in! Can I get you anything to drink?”

Donald closed the door, “No, sorry. I’m on duty. I’m just here for some inf-“

Macario cut him off with a bright laugh, “Typical FBI, always on the job. Please, have a seat. This won’t take long, but I do prefer to do business with people who are a little more relaxed than you currently are.”

It took some effort not to simply turn around and leave. He wasn’t in the mood for this shit, he wasn’t in the mood for anything. Biting back his initial response, Donald sat down at the very tip of the chair and waited.

The man stood and smiled, Donald wondered if the man ever stopped smiling. “Better than nothing.” He walked to a small cabinet and took out what Donald could only assume was some brandy or cognac, “I understand you are looking for a woman? Elise?”

He nodded, “She has some information pertinent to an investigation. I was told you would know where she is.”

“I do.” he poured two glasses. The man was charming, he thought. Friendly, easy, relaxed, not entirely what he’d imagined. “I was also told that Reddington would be here today.”

“He had other obligations.” 

That made him turn around, his expression bemused, “I sense a bit of hostility from you. Tell me, does Reddington always use you for menial tasks?” he turned, both glasses in hand. “Or does he at least understand you have a bit more use than simply inquiring after missing woman?”

Despite himself Donald smiled, “Honestly, I don’t think he cares. I told you I can’t drink.” He said the second the glass was placed in front of him.

“Apple juice. Nothing too sinister.” He answered taking a hefty sip from his own, “As for the woman, she is living in New York under the alias Amanda McGee. She works as a nurse.” He pulled out a small card, “Here is her address and place of work.”

“Thanks.” Donald took a large gulp from his juice and pocketed the card. “I’ll have to get back.” He finished the drink, “Thanks for the information and the juice.”

“Not at all. I hope I was of some help.” He said, “And don’t let Reddington push you around. He can be a bit of a bastard.”

Now Donald laughed, “Tell me about it...” he shook his head, suddenly feeling a touch light headed. Probably a migraine coming on. “In any event thanks for the information…” he’d meant to stand, meant to get up and leave, but the second he pushed up his legs buckled and he instantly collapsed back into the chair. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” he could barely see him through blurred vision, only barely making out as the man took a long sip from his glass. It was the last coherent thing he processed before collapsing completely.

* * *

He woke up cold. 

His whole body shivered, breaking out in goosebumps. Why was he naked? Why was he gagged? A rough hand touched his bare shoulder and Donald snapped awake. “There you are.”

He tried to move, but tight restraints bound his hands above his head, and his feet wide apart. His stomach and ribs were painfully pressed into a desk. A brief glance around made his heart hammer. He was still in Macario’s office. Tied down in Macario’s office. Naked and gagged in macario’s office.

Shit.

“I do so prefer my men to be awake for the activity. Thankfully your system fought the drug quite quickly. Are you an addict perhaps?”

As he spoke the hand glided down to his lower back, hovering there. Ressler tried to arch away, only succeeding in pressing his stomach deeper into the lip of the desk. He clenched his teeth and breathed around the cloth. The hand slid lower and a finger slid into his crack, over his hole. It was slick, and hot and raw. Had he already…? While he’d been…?

He coughed around a sudden bout of sickness.

Macario leaned over him, “Now, now. No need to worry, I only prepared you. Like I said, I like my partners to be lucid.” He pulled away, “Now with all the formalities out of the way, I can take my payment.” He leaned over again, pressing his exposed cock to Donald’s entrance, he placed a sloppy kiss to his cheek. His hand squeezed around his neck, making him choke for breath, “And what a lovely bit of payment it is. You’ll have to thank Red for me.”

Donald shut his eyes, anger, hurt, despondency, frustration all bubbling over him. Damn that son of a bitch! With a final kiss, Macario pressed forward, the thick head pushing hard against his entrance. “Just enjoy the ride, pretty boy.”

And it slid in, punctuated by Donald’s muffled scream.

* * *

When Donald next woke, he was dressed and sprawled on a couch. His whole body ached and it took a while for him to get his bearings. He was still in the office, this time alone. With a little effort he pushed himself up. Donald wiped his face, and pulled his hand away. It smelled like soap. Pulling his shirt open he took a whiff and sure enough his skin smelled entirely of soap.

He’d been  _cleaned_ .

His jaw tightened and he bowed his head, pressing it into his waiting hand. For a long time Donald just tried to breathe, tried to bring himself to some form of calm state. Glancing at his hand he could see the raw marks where the ropes had cut into his hands, where his nails had bit into his skin.

Bile pressed up into mouth, which he barely held back.

He'd known. He'd always known Reddington hated him, thought so little of him that he would drop him down a hole and leave him for dead if he had the chance. That, at least in Reddington's eyes, Donald never mattered, he was a means to an end, a pawn in his eyes, a worthless minion. It shouldn’t surprise him that he would do something like this. Use him as payment.

Then why does it feel like a betrayal?

“ _And what a lovely bit of payment it is. You’ll have to thank Red for me.”_

He stood, eyes blurred and heart hammering but instantly collapsed back down when his legs gave way. His system was still shaking the drugs. A burst of laughter shook away the sheer despondency taking hold. He had to leave. 

The shrill ring from his phone cut through the silence. Donald fumbled, reaching into his coat pocket and answered without looking, “Ressler…” God he sounded horrible. His throat  _hurt_ .

“ _Cooper here. Did you get the information_?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat and winced, “Took a little longer, ah, Macario liked to beat around the bush. I’ll send it through to Aram.”

“ _Thanks... he’s sending it now_.” There was a slight pause, and when Cooper spoke next, his voice was softer, “ _Are you okay? You sound a little rough_.”

“Ah…I,” his heart started hammering, beating like a mad drum in his chest. He stood again, swaying against the wave of dizziness but he pushed ahead. He had to get out of here. “Migraine.” He finally settled on, ripping open the door. “It’s quite bad today.”

“ _Okay_ ,” another pause, “ _Go take a rest. Keen and Reddington haven’t returned yet, so we can’t do much till then. I’ll call you when we have a heading._ ”

“Will do, and thanks.” Usually he would fight adamantly, he would refuse to be away from the office on a case. Donald never _allowed_ anything to stop him from doing his job. He hung up and stepped onto the elevator. 

But right now, he just couldn’t face them. Least of all Reddington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for disappearing. I had a bit of a medical emergency, but I'm feeling much better now :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who have been so patient, next chapters will (hopefully) not take so long.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well that went south.”

“You _think_?” Lizzie screeched, yes screeched above the roar of gunfire. “It went god-damned awful!”

“It depends on your perspective, really.” Another slew of gunfire peppered the pillar he was using for cover. Afrikaans insults and curses thrown down the room as well for good measure.

Lizzie jumped up and fired a few shots back, clipping one of their attackers in the leg.

“Jou vokken _poes_ man!”  
  
Red shook his head in perfect dismay, “Such language. I know we are criminals, but some class isn’t much to ask for.”

Ducking out of view she reloaded, “You have a way outta here?”

Red settled a little better against the pillar, offering only a glance in her direction. “I always have a way out.” Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a small device and typed in three numbers. “Keep them busy, would you Lizzie?”

She popped up behind the crate and fired six times. Attention diverted, Red leaned around the other side of the pillar and tossed the device down the room towards the men. “Cover your ears.” he said politely, doing so himself.

A loud explosion boomed through the room, ripping straight through the floor. Red stood and walked towards the disoriented men, pulling out his gun and killing them in quick succession. When the final bullet landed, he turned. Lizzie was staggering to a standing position with at least some success. She grabbed a hold of a crate, swaying and dizzy.

“I told you to cover your ears.” He grabbed her arm to steady her.

“What the hell _was_ that?”

“A device a dear friend of mine asked me to test out for him. Happy to say, I can tell him it works.”

Through blurred vision, Lizzy stared at him. “What if it hadn’t worked?”

“Let’s not dwell on the might-have-beens.” He slid her arm over his shoulders, “There is a back-door we can use. You’ll be faint for a while, make sure to hold on the for time being.”

There was no response, Lizzie just kept walking, focussing unsteadily on the floor in front of her as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The door was thankfully only a few paces away. Hand on the door handle, he slammed his shoulder against the metal door forcing it to swing open. They stumbled into the light just as Dembe drove into view.

Red smiled.

* * *

Cooper spun on them when they stepped off the elevator only twenty minutes later. “Shots fired? Six people dead? Russouw got away? Mind telling me what the _hell_ went wrong?”

“Thank you for that lovely little summary, Harold. I’m sure our audience is now nicely caught up.” Red said.

“I don’t need your damned higher-than-tho attitude, Reddington!” Cooper stuck his finger under his nose, his eyes burning with tempered rage, “Just what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“I will admit the negotiations didn’t go as efficiently as we’d hoped, Russouw is – in very inapt terms – a difficult man. But I believe we got enough to move forward at the very least.”

“Glad you got something,” Said Lizzie, collapsing in a nearby chair, still shaking off the impulse explosion. “Cause I sure as hell didn’t get anything.”

Red turned and _looked_ at her.

There were certain points in their acquaintance when he had to wonder about Elizabeth. At times she could be so efficient, strong and fierce and other times she failed almost perfectly at the first hurdle. At times it could be baffling. “You simply have to understand Russouw,” he finally said, “South Africans are surprisingly cynical creatures in nature., and quite secretive as well. But in our conversation, he gave me enough. All we need now is the location of Elise.”

“Uh, Agent Ressler sent the information through an hour ago.”

“Oh? Did he now?” Red casually looked about the room. “Where is our resident boy-scout?”

“He’s on his way,” offered Cooper, his eyes on the screen. “It took a little longer than expected.”

As if on cue, the doors to the elevator opened and in walked Donald. His eyes focused on the floor, clearly in thought. Red took a moment to admire the man. If only briefly. Even if he was never allowed to touch the way his heart ached to, at the very less he could enjoy this much. And it was a wonderful sight to enjoy.

Albeit if today, he seemed a touch under the weather.

“Ah, Donald!” said Red, hoping to hide the sudden rise in his heart beat, “Good of you to show!” Donald paused a moment to glance at him, and Red could now clearly see the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. “I see Macario kept you busy? You look a little done in, I pray the exchange wasn’t too exhausting, he does so like to b– “

The fist cracked over his jaw with enough force to send him to the floor.

“ _Ressler_!”

“ _What are you doing_ –! “

“– _are you out of your mind_ –! “

For a full moment Red was perfectly dazed, barely able to comprehend what the hell had even happened. Above the ringing in his ears he heard voices. Lizzy and Cooper were both yelling at Donald… and Dembe – he peered up and blinked around the ring of fuzziness – was acting as a buffer between himself and Ressler. Dembe looked about ready to punch him back.

“Dembe…don’t…” he said, voice distant, still laced with a touch of surprise. Instantly rough hands grabbed him around the shoulders, pulling him up from the floor. Red stood, a little unsteady but Dembe kept him from crumbling again. Lizzy and Cooper now stood in front of Donald, preventing him from trying something again, and Donald…

Wasn’t speaking, was just staring at him, his expression one of pure unadulterated _hate_. A horrible spike of shock shot down his spine. He wanted to ask what had happened. Somehow reach out and pull him away from onlookers and whispers and yelling and ask and prod and inquire until he knew every detail.

But in the face of a painful assault in front of so many onlookers, Red could not afford it. He had to save face, but he still wanted to know. Donald was still looking at him, as if the world had faded away and the only thing that mattered was Red – most likely getting hit again.

Red needed to provoke him, to get him angry enough to blurt out what had happened without any sort of filter marring the truth. Bracing himself for another explosion, Red threw his head back and laughed around the spike of pain in his jaw, “My, my, Donald, you _are_ worked up. Did Macario tell you something? Share a delicious secret he wasn’t supposed to? I’d love to hear it, Donald. As I’m sure your FBI cohorts would love to be privy to it as well.”

Donald froze entirely. The hate melting into something stony and pale – something almost terrified. Red took a step closer, but before he could push further, Cooper grabbed Donald by the arm. “My office, _now_.”

Eyes lowered; Donald walked after him without a word.

“Give the man this,” said Red as Dembe inspected his jaw, “He has a decent swing.” His nonchalance was being gobbled up by the spike of concern. What had Macario _done_ to him?

After a moment Dembe stood back, nodding lightly. Red worked his jaw carefully.

“Whatever his reason, I’m sure you deserved it.” Lizzy was seated on a table, watching them, her own expression a little teasing and perhaps a little smug.

Red chuckled, and winced instantly. “I’ve done a few things in my life that deserved at least one good thump, Lizzy. But I would like to know what I’m being assaulted for, if it’s all the same.”

“But she’s right?” Aram said softly, “Agent Ressler, he won’t do anything without provocation….”

 _No_ , Red thought _, he wouldn’t. But I haven’t done anything_.

His words were barely cold when Cooper’s door flung open and Donald stormed out. He brushed past them – ignoring Liz’s call and Aram’s quiet ‘Are you alright?’ – and went straight to the elevator. His shoulders were tight and eyes pinned to the floor, refusing to go above the knee-line. Red watched him until the elevators closed, his heart’s beating hard and fierce. His throat a little tight.

In a much more sedated and slightly defeated pace, Cooper came down the stairs. “He wouldn’t tell me.” He said, “If he had just _told_ me I might not have had to suspend him.”

“You suspended him?” Aram’s eyes were wide, shocked.

“He assaulted a… visitor in a federal building. It should be grounds for immediate dismissal, but I know him.” He turned to glare at Red, “He probably had a good reason.”

“So they say.” Said Red, his eyes pinned to the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ressler is surprisingly difficult for me to write :\ I LOVE the guy, but for some reason I have to really think about his reactions before jotting them down. 
> 
> Still, I hope you all still enjoyed ^_^
> 
> Also, the Afrikaans in this scene comes down to "Your fucking c*nt man" - which kinda loses something in translation. XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more emotionally driven. I hope it's still an enjoyable read. All feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is still reading and enjoying this story! You're amazing ^_^

As a surprise to most, before starting in the FBI Donald had enjoyed reading. Specifically, non-fiction books on the battlefields in history. He quite enjoyed watching tactical strategies unfold. How entire battlefields could be broken down step-by-step, dismantled and then allow the writer to point to the turning point for the victor. 

There was something calmly refreshing about seeing something so chaotic brought into laser focus. 

As his new job consumed him entirely his reading fell to the wayside, leaving him bereft of an old well-loved hobby - something else the damned FBI had taken from him - but one he still applied in his job. Tactics and strategy were part of his day-to-day and he was proud to admit these books helped him understand terrain and thought process of his enemies and targets far better. 

It had helped him think ahead, see the potential danger. He went as much on instinct as training, but sometimes he would think of battlefields and how simple tactics would often turn the tide. Understand your enemies was, after all, half the battle. 

Now Donald, sat at a bar at one in the afternoon laughed at the thought. He took a long swig from his beer, finishing it, and gestured to the barmen for another. The very idea that he’d ever understood Reddington was laughable. No matter how hard he’d tried he’d always been a full mile behind. Always left to stumble on the traps and tricks Reddington left out for him to find. 

He’d walked right into them. Just like this one. 

The beer landed in front of him (His fifth or sixth? He wasn’t sure) and he took a long swallow, barely tasting it anymore. The murky darkness of the bar kept out the warm sun. His phone sat next to him, turned off, keeping Keen and Aram at bay, at least for the time being. This time of day the place was empty, leaving Donald wrapped up in his swirling thoughts. 

He’d been raped. 

His breath hitched and his hand tightened around the bottle. 

“ _You are beautiful, Donnie_.”

He took a long hard swig from the beer. He had to forget. Had to push down the incessant need to think about it, to dwell on it. Had to stop his mind from calling up the image, the feeling of being trapped underneath a man who had bit into his shoulder and then called him ‘sweetheart’. Ignore the pain in his shoulder, around his wrists, his ankles, the slight burn down his back, the agony in his –

When the bottle hit the bar, his hand was trembling. He placed it flat on the table, pressing it into the wet spot where his beers had sweated. The low light caught the bruise on his hand, and despite it all he smiled, tight and bitter. That punch had been the best form of therapy he’d ever experienced. Pity he couldn’t make it a weekly appointment. 

The thought made him laugh a little brighter and he called for another beer. 

Hours later he stumbled out of the bar to a waiting cab, the sky in that ugly murky stage of greys and colours fading into night. He muttered the address and sat back, watching the lights fly past the window. His hand drifted to his side, palming the empty spot where his gun should be. 

Cooper had been so angry. Almost desperate for Donald to break his cold silence and just tell him why he’d punched Reddington. But nothing in this world could convince Donald to tell him anything. To share this in any capacity. What in the world would he think? He doubted Cooper would be dismissive or cruel, but he had no doubt that whatever little respect Cooper still harboured for him would fly out the window. Just another point proving how Red outsmarted Ressler around every corner. 

No, he couldn’t tell him, which meant he was most likely going to lose his job. 

Just something else Red would be taking. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. 

“ _I’d love to hear it, Donald. As I’m sure your FBI cohorts would love to be privy to it as well_.” A hollow laugh bubbled up from his chest. The driver glanced at him, but Donald ignored him. _Check mate, Red. Check fucking mate_. The sonovabitch was likely going to be sitting in his apartment. Sipping at his only decent whiskey he owned, gloating and telling him why he got exactly what he deserved. Smiling and smug and perfectly content while Donald was drowning. 

In some sort of messed up way, Donald looked forward to it. There was this wonderful chance to finally show, without a single doubt, at least to himself, what a monster Red was. Not some anti-hero or good guy villain. No excuse or explanation could vindicate him. Nothing could make this right. It was almost liberating. 

The need for any sort of recognition from the bastard was finally dead and buried. Red thought nothing about him, he had no reason to care anymore. Donald was a man with nothing left to lose, with a twelve-gauge shotgun in his room. He couldn’t wait to see Reddington. 

At his building he overpaid the driver and dragged himself up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. The elevator made him woozy and when the doors pinged open, he almost tripped over his feet. 

***

The door to his apartment swayed shut, and Donald stood dead still, allowing the sudden darkness to settle around him. His apartment felt cold. The constant hum of the city rippled up from the streets, muffled and soft against the backdrop of his blood rushing through his ears. 

He listened. Waited, anticipated the moment a light would go on and that smug voice would greet him with a happy ‘Hello Donald!’ 

Nothing happened. 

He was alone. 

A sudden spike of fear froze him to the spot. He couldn’t move. The loneliness punctuating the events with perfect clarity, making them ring in his ears. Here, in this darkness, he could still feel him, the hands, the whispers, the promises, compliments. 

He swallowed down a rise of bile, and stumbled to the kitchen sink to vomit in any case. 

Just beer, so much fucking beer. It swirled and sunk down the drain, sluggish and sour. Donald coughed and staggered back. His heart was ramming, hands shaking, barely able to grip the counter to keep him grounded. His stomach wrenched again and he hung over the sink, dry heaving for another few minutes. 

When he staggered back the second time his legs nearly gave way. He had to calm down. Letting this consume him would be stupid. Taking slow measured breath, Donald counted down from twenty. Slowly he calmed, bringing the shaking in his hands to a light tremble. 

Better. 

He flicked on the lights, winced at the brightness, hung up his jacket and headed for his bedroom. 

Where he froze in the doorway. 

On the bed, wrapped in black wrapping paper, was a small box. His heart kicked in his chest, letting his breath hitch. For a single moment he almost stepped back, almost recoiled at the sight of it, but the anger at his own cowardice chased that thought to hell and he stomped forward, grabbed the box and ripped it open. 

It was a tie, beautiful blue with a tasteful wave pattern. A note attached had him almost retching again. 

_Donald,_

_Just a thank you for a wonderful afternoon._

_I hope we meet again soon._

_Yours,_

_Macrio._

The box hit the wall, the tie knocked out and flopped on the floor, the crumpled note stamped into the ground. Donald grabbed a bag, tossed in some clothes and left the apartment, wishing his hands would just stop shaking. Wishing his heart would stop ramming, and all of this would just be a nightmare. 


	5. Chapter 5

The day had been long. Their quarry, and their much sought after information had finally been captured. Now they just needed to extract said information from said quarry. The FBI was happy to have another dangerous criminal behind bars and for now, Red left the interrogation in the capable hands of Teddy. He smiled, he should have the information by tomorrow.

And in the meantime, he could follow-up on a different matter. 

Coming up with reasons why Ressler would punch him was an exercise in futility. There were plenty of reasons for Ressler to do so… he’s just never done it until now. Which meant that whatever Macario had told him was enough to tilt his ever-fierce control over the edge and into blind fury. 

Trying to contact Macario proved fruitless. The man was illusive at the best of times and a downright phantom at worst. He moved seamlessly between places, appearing for only brief moments before sliding back into the shadows of obscurity like some near-extinct crypto. 

With that option dead and buried for the time being, Red turned his attention to Ressler. 

It was midnight when Red and Dembe stepped off the elevator, on their way to Donald’s apartment. The hallway’s dark green carpets and soft lighting made the building convey a feeling of warmth and home. Red wondered if Donald specifically chose the building for this particular aesthetic. Red opened the door with his own spare key and let Dembe take the lead. 

In the many years he’s known the Agent, Ressler’s apartment had always been a point of interest to Red – for varying reasons. 

When Donald had been appointed the unenviable task of ‘bringing him to justice’ and all that malarkey, Red had once decided to visit his home, (while Ressler thought he was in Shang Hai, of course) to try and better understand the tenacious agent. What he’d found at the time had bored him to tears. A television, a couch, a place to work and a bookcase with titles that held no interest for him. Criminology, guns, tactical strategies, FBI laws and regulations. Red distinctly remembered being perfectly dismayed at such a narrow mind, and that it – in all its simplicity – had been assigned to capturing him. 

Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance in hell, he’d thought at the time, but then again, it would make Red’s life easier. 

He would not visit again for at least another year. Only doing so because the FBI had found one of his warehouses, and he was feeling petty. Nothing much had changed, but he found an excellent whiskey under the sink – which he took – and then he stepped into the bedroom. The walls were bare, the bed neatly made and everything perfectly in place, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in some time. When he went back to the Livingroom, he spotted numerous empty beer bottles on the small table, and a blanket tucked underneath. It would mark the first time Red felt something else other than resentment for the man. 

His third visit, another year later, found pictures of family, and Audrey, strategically placed to forget about them the moment he sat in front of the television. For a very long time he refused to admit that he was beginning to worry about the man. 

The fourth – three years down the line – found a guitar, and for the first time Ressler actually piqued his interest. Musicians had a knack to draw him in – they were sensitive and creative. Not something he would associate with Donald. He also found a stack of blues sheet music, from the aged paper and numerous marks, they’d been played often. He wondered if Donald was practicing for his fiancé, and then remembered that Audrey had left him. 

It would mark the first time he would actually admit to feeling guilty. 

Since partnering with the FBI Red had felt no need to visit the man’s home. It was… difficult. On the one hand he would enjoy feeling closer to Donald, on the other he did not wish to be reminded of what he could not have. 

When he walked into the apartment that evening his only goal was to get an answer out of Donald. And of course, to ensure Dembe gave him a good thump in return. An eye for an eye and all that. His bloody jaw still smarted, and a rather spectacular bruise was forming. 

Much like all the other times, not much had changed, and Red quickly headed for the cabinet where Donald kept his liquor. 

“Would you like a tot?” 

“No, thank you,” said Dembe, quietly checking the rooms to make sure they were alone. 

“His taste in alcohol has improved,” he said and pulled the cork, “Let’s hope it will one day extend to his taste in literature.” 

Dembe said nothing and headed into the bedroom. Red took a moment to walk around the living area. The same books lined the shelves, his television had been upgraded and he spotted a book on the table. Castles of Steel, a book on the First World War battleships. Red chuckled, could he be reading anything more masculine? 

His hand drifted over the top of the couch. Donald wasn’t using it as a bed anymore, and the lack of beer bottles was encouraging until he remembered his short-lived other addiction. Not all demons were obvious. 

“Raymond.” 

Pulled from his thoughts, he took a quick sip from the tumbler and headed for the bedroom. “Is he passed out?” he asked. If Dembe was calling, then he was either dead or too drunk to notice. 

“No. Here” 

Dembe held up a tie in one hand and a box in the other. Without a word Red took the tie, and rubbed the fabric between his fingers, “This is excellent quality.” 

“I found it on the ground.” 

A dark sinister thing began to swirl in his chest. He turned to the box, “This was a gift. Clearly one Donald did not appreciate.” 

“Raymond.” Dembe bent down to pick up a piece of paper, he held it out to Red who carefully unfolded the crumpled little ball and stared at the words. He frowned, the sinister emotion ripening in his chest. He dropped the tie on the bed, and exchanged his drink for the phone in Dembe’s pocket without a word. He dialed while his eyes remained glued to the crumpled words. 

“ _Hello_?” the voice crackled over the phone, thick with sleep. 

“Aram, I need you to find Donald for me.” 

Soft rustling whispered from the other side. “ _Agent Ressler? Um… why_?” 

“We have some…” his fingers traced the words, “… items of interest to discuss.” 

A long pause hung over the phone between them, but before Red could yell at him Aram cleared his throat, his voice filled with pleading yet sharp with determination. “ _Um…. Mr. Reddington? I know he shouldn’t have punched you, and I know you’re angry, but he’s already in trouble and I don’t want him to get hurt even more, and he’s my friend. So, I need to know why you’re um… looking for him?_ ” 

The instant pulse of anger took him by surprise, at Dembe’s change in expression he hadn’t masked it well. Red turned around, hand tightening over the paper, his heart picking up in pace. He took a deep breath and smiled, “Aram.” He said, voice low. The man shushed up instantly, “I give you my word, I will not hurt him, but I need to know where he is, it’s important.” 

“ _Important for him or for you_?” 

He should hang up. No matter how good the man was, Red had countless people at his disposal who were just as good, if not better. He managed to resist. Aram was his quickest route, and he had to see Ressler. “Both.” 

A long silence followed. “ _Okay_ …” then a deep breath, “ _Okay. Just, just please don’t hurt him? Please._ ” 

Red’s eyes slid shut, “I won’t.” He wasn’t sure how much of a lie it was, it really depends in which state he found him. 

Faint tapping clapped over the phone, “ _His phone is off, I can’t track him_.” 

“I certainly didn’t phone you tell me what you couldn’t do.” 

“ _Um… yes of course… I’ll try something else?_ ” 

His eyes narrowed. “Do.” 

Another string of faint tapping on a keyboard, “ _Okay, he err... used his credit card a few hours ago at the Quick-Stop Hotel_.” 

“Where is it?” 

A few quick taps, “ _About five miles north from you current_ –“

He hung up. “We’re heading for the Quick-Stop hotel. Five miles north from here.” 

Dembe nodded and followed Red out. Both quiet all the way to the hotel. Red kept the note, now nestled in his pocket. Somehow, he couldn’t let it go, not when it oozed such malice. 

* * * *

The hotel was a dump. A word far too gentle in its implication. Quick-Stop should be the longest you stayed at the decrepit health-hazard. The carpet was stained and filthy, dark patches of unknown origin enough to make him want to switch out his shoes for something less expensive. On the cracked walls clung faded wallpaper straight from the 70’s and at the reception sat a man of fifty, greasy, balding and eyes sunken from exhaustion or drink. Most likely both. 

He looked like part of the décor. 

A hundred-dollar bill granted them access to Donald’s room via a yellowed grin. Red did not smile back and marched upstairs, Dembe close behind. The first floor looked no better than the ground. But a pungent smell of what could be vomit wafted down the corridor. 

“The man has enough money to buy a brand-new HD flatscreen, but he stays at a place of such vile conditions.” He shook his head, “What is he doing here?” 

Dembe did not reply, but Red was an expert in Dembe-silence. _He’s running, Raymond, don’t matter where you end up just so long as you’re not where you were ten minutes ago_. He could already hear him say. He knew that, some part of him just hoped he was wrong. 

They stopped at room 7 and without hesitation Raymond knocked. Behind the door was movement, a grunt and the shuffle of feet. The door opened and Red smiled. 

“Ah Donald, excellent to see you.” 

Donald’s fist was caught mid-air and dragged behind his back and into the room by Dembe. “Not this time, my dear Donnie.” Said Red, following them inside the cramped little room. 

“Don’t touch me!” Dembe pulled the struggling Donald to his knees right in front of an old battered chair, both of his hands gripped tightly behind his back. Red walked around him, watching Donald struggle, taking in the pale face, red eyes and strained features. “Now, I would be the first to admit that I’ve probably deserved a punch or six in my time, but I would prefer to know why. So please, enlighten me.” 

Donald wrenched, nearly dislodging Dembe, “You know exactly why!” 

Red shook his head, bemused and sat down on the very lip of the chair. He looked straight into the man’s green eyes. They were stormy and wild and still so beautiful. He smiled “I wouldn’t be asking if I knew.” 

“Fuck off, Red! I’m not playing this stupid game!” 

“No game. Tell me what he said that upset you so much.” 

Donald looked down at the floor and yanked again, Dembe gripped him tighter and Donald shut his eyes tight, “Let me go, Dembe!” he yelled, the anger laced with desperation. His body beginning to curl up around the shoulders, his mouth set in unease and fear. 

Red stilled. His face going slack to hide his rising shock. No, he thought. No. Not Donald. Surely… Macario wouldn’t. “Donald…” his voice tightened, the small note now burning a sudden hole through his pocket in its implication. A cold sense of dread made his heart suddenly thump, clear and harsh in his chest. He had to be wrong, _please let me be wrong_. “…did he sexually assault you?” his own voice had fallen so much he could barely hear himself. 

But Donald had heard him loud and clear. His head snapped up and he snarled. “Don’t act like you didn’t know!” Again, he wrenched, Dembe barely holding on, finally whipping out a gun to press to Donald’s jaw, but he didn’t even seem to notice “Did you fucking enjoy it?” Donald yelled, eyes wild and voice raw, “Did you get some sort of kick out of having someone do that to me? All that crap about how you ‘respect’ me, that you somehow don’t think I’m so far beneath you that I’m basically shit stuck to your shoe.” He laughed, mirthless and bitter, “Well, this proves my worth to you. Payment. I hope it was worth it, because I swear to God if I ever get you alone, I will fucking kill you.” 

He didn’t have to look at Dembe to see the expression of anger and shock mixing across his face. He could feel it tighten across his own. “Let him go.” 

Dembe did so, and Donald slumped. His shoulders folding around him, head bowed and hands resting on his knees. The urge to reach out to him was overwhelming, but Red held back, he doubted the touch would be welcomed or accepted. But Donald had been _hurt_ , and it was indirectly Red’s fault – he’d sent him there after all. He had to do something. After some consideration he finally managed, “Are you hurt? Have you been to a doctor?” 

“No.” he said, arms now crossed over his chest. 

“Very well. I’ll send someone over.” He said, voice still soft, “You need to be examined.” 

“ _No_.” 

Red cleared his throat. “I understand how you’re feeling right now, but you may have internal injuries and its best – “

_“Fuck you!”_ And like gasoline to a dying fire, the fury ignited. He stood up, Dembe made to grab him but Red moved his hand inconspicuously to the chair arm. Dembe stepped back, but stood ready. “He told me!” Donald’s voice was raw, from screaming from crying, he wasn’t sure. “He told me that you sent me in as payment!” 

“Upon my word, I did not.” He stood, surprised when Donald recoiled away from him like Red had turned into a spitting snake, “I did not send you in as remittance. I’ve … done many things that warrant some degree of scrutiny, but I would never use someone like that.” 

Donald shook his head, his laugh low and bitter. “I don’t know, Red. You’re kinda fucked up on most days. Don’t know what the hell is always going on in that head of yours.” 

Red sighed, and stared at the floor for a long while. “I understand your suspicion toward my intentions. But please believe me I never meant for you to be hurt.” 

The silence fell heavy. For a long time, Donald only stared at the floor, his eyes red and his breathing slow and measured. He swallowed hard and said in a small voice, “Just get out.” 

Red’s heart wrenched, his hands itching to grab the man by the shoulders, to force him to look Red in the eye and make him understand that he could never do such a thing to Donald. But he resisted, only nodded and gestured to Dembe before sliding past Donald to the door. He paused by a small rickety table and pulled out a card. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning around eight with a doctor in tow. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.” 

Donald did not turn around, he remained trembling and hunched in the middle of the room. With a final glance they left and shut the door. Red’s heart was in tatters, but his fury was rising with every step. Macario will pay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I couldn't decide which way to go with the story, but eventually settled on an idea I think will work. I also struggled with this confrontation between Red and Donald, but I hope it's an enjoyable read. Thanks to everyone for being so patient!


	6. Chapter 6

Late in the night the clouds gathered over a dark sky and after lightning and thunder had exchanged greetings, rain started to pepper against his window.

Red watched the drops of water glide down the glass, creating neon pink streaks, illuminated by a blitzing billboard on the other side of the street. He sat in darkness, lounged in a comfortable arm chair. In his left hand was a forgotten cognac, his right resting across his lap, and eyes blurred, too tired to focus.

He couldn’t get Donald’s voice out of his head. Contorted into so much hate, hiding the lace of pain behind unbridled rage, but which still managed to leak out in any case. Red swallowed, his hand tightening around the glass. He was a bastard. Probably the first to admit iy, with even a hint of pride. But his heart couldn't bare the thought of Donald _hurting_. Of Red being the cause of that pain. And he had no way of proving to Donald without a doubt (because that man carried with him ample amounts of it when it came to Red and his posse) that his intentions had never been malicious.

“Raymond?”

The comfort of darkness dissipated and Red sighed, but then again Dembe would always be welcome, “Yes, Dembe?”

A soft rustle of movement and he heard the footsteps ease into the room, around the couch to stand in front oh him. He was dripping wet, his jacket most likely already shed, but it had little effect. He was sopping. Red felt a little pity for the carpet. Wiping a hand over his shaved head, Dembe shifted again, “You haven’t slept?” he asked, a question loaded with a slew of meaning.

“No,” an answer loaded with even more.

Dembe sat down, and Red tried not to think about the state of the couch tomorrow. “He is… okay.” Dembe shifted and stared at his hands, “I stayed until he turned the light off. Ricky is watching over him for now.”

Red nodded, “Thank you,” his throat turned suddenly stiff, he swallowed hard around it to get his voice back, “Any luck in finding Macario?” The name tasted like venom on his tongue. He downed his cognac.

“The fox has gone into hiding,” Dembe said, shifting to lean back, “He is no mood to be found.”

“Then we’ll have to burn down the forest to find him.”

Dembe’s expression tightened into surprise, “Raymond,” his tone was hard like steel. Red looked at him, “Are you doing this for him or for you?”

The sudden spike of rage was smothered by a hard breath, “He deserves justice.” Red snapped and quickly stalked over to the bar, grabbing a bottle to pour another shot of liquor, this time Brandy. “You want a tot?”

“No, thank you.”

The exchange felt so familiar, that Red fumbled with the bottle for a moment, grabbed just in time by Dembe’s warm hand wrapping around his own.

Dembe's expression was soft, yet determined. “That is for him to decide.”

Red pulled away and took a long sip, “He is a man of _pride_ , Dembe.” His feet carried him over to the window, “Like you, like myself. Being so … violated would be, no, _is_ unthinkable.” Taking a breath, he closed his eyes, “The only way to make the world right again, is to bring it back into balance, men like us, we don’t allow it to stay imbalanced. We reset the scales.”

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, making Red tense “He is not entirely like us." said Dembe, voice a rumble of soft understanding, "Our teeth are sharp, our claws always ready against any who slight us. He still trusts in the good of the world.”

“Which is why Macario needs to pay.”

The hand fell away, followed by a hard sigh. “You can’t undo this Raymond.”

“I know.” He downed his brandy, and smacked his lips, “But I can damn well bring his world back into balance.”

* * *

The scream sat tight and unrelenting in his throat, unable to break through the tension. He choked and coughed to force it out of the painful knot. Then burst into a wild struggle when he realized he couldn’t _breathe_.

The scream ripped lose.

Donald collapsed on the floor, sheets tangled around sweaty legs, his heart ramming and breath shaky in the cold darkness. Slowly his memory batted away the confusion ( _in a hotel, not at home, away from home, can't be there now, because you were ra-)_ and Donald sagged, leaning back against the wall behind him, slowly bringing his breath back under control.

Third one. The third fucking nightmare. They were all the same, with him unable to move, or barely breathe, knots tight around his arms and legs, and hands _touching_ him. He could still feel their echoes on his skin. The voice licking in his ear…

“ _You’re perfect, Donnie..._ ”

He shuddered and with a grunt stood, he swayed against the lurch of nausea and grabbed the wall, waiting for the dizziness to dissipate. His back was on fire. He tried to ignore it.

The rain had eased some. Below a drunkard was singing carols off-key. Donald sagged again and shifted over to the window, watching the rain trickle down the glass.

Sick. Dear God he still felt so sick. Like an ingrained nausea metastasizing in his chest, it bubbled and grew making him wish for death. For silence, for anything other than this deep humming sickness.

“ _…a perfect little fuck.”_

Donald closed his eyes. Slowly, like frozen rocks melting in burning fire, did the anger crawl up in his chest. His fingers curled into his palm, nails biting into his skin creating half-moon indents. Pressing his head against the cool window he tried to breathe around the rising fire in his chest. And as if it was summoned, Red’s face swam into focus.

“ _But please believe me I never meant for you to be hurt_.”

The pane shattered against his fist, sending sparkling glass to the street below along with the rain. The blast of cold made him gasp. Red can go fuck himself, he can die in a pit of vipers, be eaten alive by maggots, he didn’t care what happened to him, he just didn’t want that bastard anywhere _near_ him. He slowly pressed his head against the wall, listening to the rain, to soft laughter floating down from the room above him, to the cabs still driving at this hour – and he sunk deeper into his anger.

Better than being miserable, than feeling sick.

“ _I’ll return tomorrow with a doctor in tow_.”

Yeah, fucking _right_.

Shortly after Red had fucked-off, Donald had pulled on his shoes, grabbed his bag and jacket and left. He’d travelled half-way across town and ended up in another hotel where he paid with cash. Bastard wouldn’t find him again.

And now he couldn’t sleep. He glanced at his watch, 04:43. With a sigh he bent - wincing at the sharp sting on his back - picked up the discarded sheets, and crawled back into the lumpy bed. Sitting up against the headboard, with a pillow behind him, Donald watched the rain streak down the glass. He smiled a little, counting the raindrops usually helped him when he couldn’t sleep.

1... 2, 3 ... 4 –

The hand glided up his back, over the grooves of muscle and skin, reaching up to grip his shoulder –

7, 8... 9 –

Lips brushed his ear, “Let’s make you prettier…”

11 ... 12 –

Something cold pressed into his skin –

14 –

Digging deeper –

15 –

Until he screamed.

His breath hitched. Once, twice and Donald buried his face into the sheets, and lost count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter used to be longer, but I split it up into two, eh. XD
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone for supporting this fic! Especially Falleness! She is a constant source of inspiration! Go read her fics, she's amazing! Thanks! ♥


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